


A Menagerie of Desires

by Dharjeeling



Category: Dunnett, Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Child of a Hundred Influences, Children with Too Many Hobbies, French Exchange, Gen, Like father like son, Post-Checkmate, ScotSwap, The Saffron Child, Whatever Happened to Khaireddin Crawford, Whose Son is He Anyway?, specfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 03:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dharjeeling/pseuds/Dharjeeling
Summary: In which Khaireddin Crawford grows up under Kate's wing, in pursuit of Francis Crawford's many talents, and to the many hobbies Kate is unable to say no to.





	A Menagerie of Desires

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kerowyn6](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/gifts).



> 1\. Written for the lovely [Kerowyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6), who hit upon the great idea of organising the first ever ScotSwap in honour of Dorothy Dunnett day. 
> 
> 2\. Originally was intending an angst fic on Kuzum growing up, and contemplating "What if Francis saved Gabriel's Child", but decided to go on to a happier note based on Kerowyn's prompt, but if you can spot the hints on Kuzum's parentage, by all means. 
> 
> 3\. Thanks to the lovely Bellaroles for suggesting to squeeze in an exchange with our insufferable hero, who still cannot speak in proper prose like the rest of us, it seems.
> 
> 4\. Most of the French in this is roughly translated by myself, with some help from Google--so apologies on inaccuracies. I found poems by Clement Marot, set to the music of Claudin de Sermissey around the same time period of Lymond, so I recommend listening to _Tant que Vivray_ to get in the mood [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VD-2b564aW8).

People liked to visit Khaireddin Crawford at Flaw Valleys. It was not just that they found him pleasant, Kate mused, like vibrant marigolds on a summer’s day, or that they liked to indulge in a bit of tongue-wagging over the un-virtuous by-blow of Francis Crawford of Lymond (such a wastrel, that one!). Like a cabinet of curiosities, Kuzúm was by his own right, a precocious lad, remarkable enough to hold any visitor’s interest.

Born of his Irish mother (long gone and bless her soul), weaned on the withered breast of his African nurse, and cossetted under many womanly arms in the Sultan’s harem before being whisked under Philippa’s wing and straight into Kate’s willing heart, Kuzúm is the child of a hundred mothers.

Those visiting Flaw Valleys were often struck by the handsome young lad, growing each day closer into the likeness of his absent parents. His eyes, blue as the sea, seemed to most, wiser than his twelve summers; to those who spoke to him as though a dim-witted child (forgetting whose son he was, and his heritage filled with so much erudition!), Kuzúm responded, with particular relish, like a man of twenty.

With the presence of guests, he also quite often, with a mischievous glint in his yellow-lashed eyes, made his way to the harpsichord (once frequented so often by his father) and unleash trills worthy of the devil upon its delicate keys with a barely concealed smugness, watching jaws unfailingly descend to the floor.

It was often an occasion that sent Kate steepling her fingers against her forehead, torn between the desire to laugh or cry in exasperation or amusement (who knew?). But she could never find it in herself to harbour rancour for her Lambkin, a child of many talents seeking to hone that one that would bring him closer to his father, who was to him like a ghost chased through murmurs, never quite within his grasp.

Like a sponge starved of moisture, Kuzúm has taken to playing a game of emulating every titbit he gathered from visitors about his father; ‘He rides horses very well,’ he once declared to Adam Blacklock (who confirmed the fact), and afterwards spent the next few years in pursuit of mastering the equine arts.

Kate’s stable is still a mess resembling a menagerie, because Archie Abernethy had once paid Flaw Valleys a visit, in which some five odd hours were spent in Kuzúm’s company; the consequences of which, still keenly felt today, included a litter of leverets, six hounds, two jennets, and several weeks spent listening to Kuzúm plead for a marmoset—all of which Kate bore with infinite patience.

His visits to Midculter has brought into bloom a taste for chess (presumably because of Sybilla), a penchant for rambunctious wrestling (likely from his violent cousins), and a newfound foray into swordsmanship (courtesy of his Uncle, the Earl of Culter). She was losing track of it all, through these years: the infinite vortex where Kuzúm’s interests lay, and longed for the day when the peace would outweigh the uproar. But then, she recalled her own years spent with Francis, and her spirits fell in discouragement.

Today it is the French, much to Kate’s dismay, in approximation of the most irritating of his father’s habits (aside from his inability to speak in proper prose). She gives up: _Si Dieu ne me veut ayder, le diable ne me pas manquer._ [1] After an entire morning spent conversing in the language of Marot, Kate is beginning to get a headache.

 _C’est une belle-journée, aujourd’hui, ma bien-aimée Catherine,_ [2] Kuzúm sings, his voice gay. _Car ma maîtresse au plaisant entretien, m'aime d'un coeur tant bon et désirable!_ [3] He takes her hands, whisking her away in a merry jig, his feet following music only he could hear.

‘Don’t call me Catherine,’ says Kate, surly, her feet heavy as stone.

Kuzúm laughs as he coaxes her stubborn feet to move. It is a sound Kate loves; and like a candle extinguished, her crossness dissipates like vapour as she falls into step with the joyous lad. _C’est une belle-journée_ , indeed; for she is reminded, now that the surliness has gone, of a secret she keeps: that today, a new visitor is making his way to Flaw Valleys.

As though provident, a commotion erupts outside. The sound of horses thunder into the courtyard, ending in a cacophony of neighing and running feet. A crisp voice, which has given Kate succour over the years, is warm and familiar and can be heard above the din, asking for them. Footsteps, brisk and deliberate, echo through her halls, drawing closer to the music room.

Her eyes slide towards Kuzúm. What she sees warms her heart, for Kuzúm’s sweet face has lit like a thousand stars on a barren night, looking at her with hopeful eyes. Kate smiles.

And at last, the visitor Kuzúm constantly hopes for arrives, resplendent in his clothing of silver and blue, his gilt-gold hair alight in the morning sun that streams through the window, no longer a ghost. An elegant hand reaches out to tousle the apricot curls that fall across Kuzúm’s brow, a sharp gaze, filled with love and fondness, meeting aquamarine eyes. Francis Crawford of Lymond’s voice very quietly says:

 _Pars plusieurs jours m’a tenu langguisant,_  
Mais après deuil m’a fait réjouissant. [4]  
  
Kate breathes in, her heart swelling with contentment, as Kuzúm replies:  
  
_Son coeur est mien,  
Mon coeur est sien. _ [5]

**Author's Note:**

> [1] From _Checkmate_ : 'If God will not help me, the Devil will not miss me.'
> 
> [2] 'It is a beautiful day, today, my beloved Catherine.' 
> 
> [3] From Clement Marot’s **_Du content en amours_** : 'For my mistress of pleasant conversation loves me from a heart so good and desirable!'
> 
> [4] The last part of this was written to the tune of Clement Marot’s _**Tant Que Vivrai En Âge Florissant**_ , as arranged by Claudin de Sermissy:
> 
> 'Many times he left me languishing,  
> but after mourning I once again rejoice;'
> 
> [5] From the same poem, follows: 
> 
> 'His heart is mine  
> my heart is his.'


End file.
